Pirate knocked on
the side door of Joe Don’s barn. Norah opened up.
“Oh, it’s raining,” she said. Then she looked past him. “Where’s Joe Don?”
Pirate was all set. “Ran into a guy. They’re having coffee.”
Norah frowned. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. Pirate felt this strange urge, an urge he’d never felt for another human being, to explore all her emotions. “What kind of guy?”
He was set for that, too. “From Swampland,” he said. “Wanted to go over some charts. Something like that.”
She looked past him again. Meanwhile, Pirate was getting wet.
“Why didn’t they come here?” she said.
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He shrugged. “The music business,” he said. “But, hey—don’t you want to see the address book?”
“Sorry. Come in.”
Pirate went in. A book lay open on the couch, cover side up:
Last
Train to Memphis;
there was a picture of Elvis Presley on the cover.
Pirate’s gaze went right from that to the Rick, almost glowing in its stand.
“Did he say if he wanted me to come get him?” Norah said.
“Who?” said Pirate.
Norah blinked. “Joe Don.”
“Nah.”
“But it’s raining.”
“He’ll call. Or maybe the Swampland guy will give him a ride.”
“Was it Big Ed?”
“Who?”
“The Swampland guy.”
“Didn’t catch his name.”
“A big guy with a droopy mustache?”
“Yeah, him. Big Ed.”
Norah nodded, but then seemed to have another thought. It made her frown again. Of the frowning emotions, Pirate had already had enough. “I thought Big Ed was flying to L.A. today,” she said.
“The music business,” Pirate said. Norah had prominent cheekbones, too, but much more delicate than Joe Don’s. Pirate took the address book from his pocket before she had a chance to go down some line of questions she’d regret. “Here,” he said.
Norah’s mood changed completely. She gazed at the thing like it had magic powers. “Oh my God,” she said.
“Take it.”
She took it, real careful, reverentlike. Pirate’s fingers understood: they got the itchy feeling.
Norah sat on
a stool, paging through the address book, very quiet.
Pirate stood by a window, watching the rain, trying to figure things
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out. He needed the Miata. That was clear. The only question was whether he was leaving alone.
After a while, he heard her crying. He turned. “What’s wrong?’
Tears were streaming down her face. “All his appointments and everything are here,” she said. “Of his last days and beyond.”
Well, of course; he hadn’t known he was going to die. “That’s so sad,” Pirate said. He went closer, looked over her shoulder.
“See,” she said, pointing to a page with horizontal lines, all blocked out in chunks of time. Pirate had never had a book like this.
He read:
call Prof. Myers re cone theory; dentist, 1:30; Sallie Mae re
questions; lunch with Nellie.
“What’s cone theory?” Pirate said.
“I don’t know,” said Norah. “He was brilliant.” She turned the page, spoke again, very softly. “This is the day he died.”
Pool 7–8, intervals; revise cat. 3 model; call Kirk Bastien—last
chance; dinner w/Nellie.
She turned the page. “And here’s the next day.”
Bastien? “Wait,” said Pirate. “Turn back.”
“Turn back?”
Pirate seized the book, turned the page himself, pointed. “How do you say that?”
“Originally it must have been French, like Bastienne. But they say Bastin.”
“Bastin? They say Bastin?”
Was he shouting? She looked a little scared. “Yes,” she said. “Bastin. They’re friends of my par—of my mother and stepfather. More my stepfather’s, really. He and the other brother—”
“Bastin? Like that? You say it like Bastin?”
“Kind of. But why—”
“Are there lots of them in town—Bastiens?”
“Just the two, as far as I know. Kirk’s the mayor.”
Pirate had a faint memory:
You’re on a bit of a roll, Mr. DuPree.
But before it could sharpen—something about that fancy Italian restaurant?—it got pushed aside by bigger thoughts.
Bastard.
That wasn’t what Lee Ann had said, dying on the floor of her closet, blood trickling between her lips. It was what he’d heard,
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not knowing this strange name. But she’d said Bastin, Pirate was sure of that. Lee Ann had been trying to tell him the name of her killer. A dying person naming her killer: that was practically a message from God. Would he ever have a better partner? He owed her, big-time.
And then it hit him, a revelation like an earthquake, strong enough to make him shake. There was a big difference between these two false accusations in his life. The first time, with Johnny Blanton, he hadn’t known the identity of the real killer, in fact, still did not. But this time, now, with Lee Ann, he knew. A lifeline! Bastien was the killer: he had the victim’s dying word.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Bastien.”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he live around here?”
“They’ve got a big place up at the lake.”
“Show me.”
“Show you?”
“Now.”
“But why? Why is it so important?” She reached for the address book, read out loud, “‘call Kirk Bastien—last chance.’” She looked up, a thought dawning in her eyes. “Does it have something to do with my father’s death?”
“Yeah,” Pirate said, just to get her cooperation. He grabbed the Rick on the way out.
“What are you doing?” Norah said.
“Joe Don wanted me to bring it.”
“Bring it where?”
“Didn’t say. He’ll call.” Pirate almost said
the music business
one more time, decided not to bother.
“Okay,” Norah said. “I’ve got my cell.”
“Let’s rock and roll,” said Pirate.
Nell gazed out the window. Rain pounded down on the cruiser, Timmy invisible inside, sitting in the dark. She’d called Clay three times, been told he was on the case, wanted her to stay right there, would be in touch soon. But everything was speeding away from everything, as Johnny had taught her. Her mind was speeding most of all. It left a trail of disturbing images: Kirk, mask pushed up on his forehead, holding his free-diving trophy; Clay and Duke, both thirteen, at the riflery championships:
the winner, not shown,
was Duke’s eleven-year-old brother, Kirk Bastien;
and just yesterday, Kirk getting out of his SUV up at Lake Versailles, and limping up to his house. She could hardly breathe. The sensation of being trapped under the reef off Little Parrot Cay came back to her, real enough that she opened the window wide, let in the wind and rain. The rain was so loud she almost didn’t hear the phone.
Nell ran to the desk, grabbed it. “Clay?”
But not Clay: some man’s voice she didn’t recognize: “Norah?” he said. “That you?”
“No. This is her mother.”
“Mrs. Jarreau? Yeller here. You seen her anywheres, Norah, that is?”
“No. I’ve been calling and calling. Is something wrong?” She knew the answer to that already, from the sound of his voice.
“Yes, ma’am, you could say that. Joe Don’s in a bad way.”
“What happened?”
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“They found him laying in the middle of the street. Princess Street.
All messed up, like some boys put the boots to him pretty good.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“Doc’s goin’ to be operating anytime now. Got him down at Mercy, where I am at this moment, Mrs. Jarreau.”
“Operating?”
“Bleeding on the brain, doc says. They got to go in, plug it all up.
But why I called, there’s this report of maybe that l’il Miata gettin’
seen nearby.”
“Oh, God.”
“I sent someone up to that old barn of Joe Don’s—she weren’t there, the car neither.”
“I don’t know where she is. Are the police involved?”
“They’s what found him. Thing is, ma’am, they got some eyewitness says a man was at the wheel of the car, an’ he was by hisself.
Not Norah in her own ride, what I’m saying. Any idea who that man could be?”
“No. None.”
There was a little pause. Nell could hear some machine beeping in the background, and a voice on a speaker. “Sure about that?” Yeller said.
“Yes,” Nell said. “What are you saying?”
“Joe Don said he was harmless, and all, and ’course with him bein’
innocent in the end, there shouldn’t be a problem, but still I—”
“Mr. Yeller? Who are you talking about?”
“Alvin DuPree,” Yeller said. “Turns out he’s a music lover. Been hangin’ out at the Red Rooster, maybe even paid a visit or two to the barn.”
“Are you telling me DuPree has met my daughter?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Pretty sure of that.”
Nell ran out
into the rain, slanting down now in icy sheets, and tried the cruiser’s passenger-side door. Locked. She banged on it. The inside of the car was all fogged up, but she could see Timmy flinch.
The window slid down.
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“Ma’am?” he said.
“Let me in.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue. Norah’s in trouble.” The lock popped up. Nell got in.
“What kind of trouble?” Timmy said.
“I don’t know,” Nell said. “And she’s not the only one.”
“Not the only one in trouble?” Timmy said.
“Drive,” said Nell.
“Where?” But he turned the key, hand not quite steady, as though her inner state had invaded his.
Where? Only one idea came to mind, not very promising. “The Red Rooster,” she said.
“That dive over on Rideau?” said Timmy. “Doubt someone like her—”
“Drive.”
Timmy slid the car in gear, turned onto Sandhill Way. Water was sluicing down both sides of the road in thick, writhing streams.
Timmy radioed in, gave his number. “Proceeding east on Crosstown, destination Red Rooster club on Rideau. Have Mrs. Jarreau.”
“I want to speak to Clay,” Nell said.
“Wants to speak to the chief,” Timmy said. “Soon as possible.
Over.”
They came to the upper end of Rideau, turned south. A half mile or so down there was water in the street, three or four inches. And a few blocks later? Flood conditions, with abandoned cars, all buildings dark, wreckage from Bernardine floating in from the back alleys, like a recurring nightmare.
“Jesus,” said Timmy, stopping the car. Voices crackled on the radio, one of them Clay’s.
“There he is,” Nell said.
Timmy called in, gave his number. “Got Mrs. Jarreau here. Any way you can patch the chief in for her?”
“On his way to a reported disturbance,” the dispatcher said. “Trying for you now.”
Nell heard static, and then nothing. “Ask her where the disturbance is,” she said.
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“They’d call me if—” A hanging traffic light came loose on the next corner, fell with a big splash. Timmy radioed in, asked the question.
“Lake Versailles,” said the dispatcher, adding the street address.
But Nell already knew.
“Timmy?” she said. “You won’t do much good here.”
He nodded and backed the car.
“It’s really raining,”
Norah said.
“Yeah,” said Pirate, behind the wheel. She’d told him she didn’t like driving in the rain, so he’d done the gentlemanly thing. But he found, after so many years off the road, that he didn’t like it either.
He had the wipers cranked to the max, a rhythm that bothered him, something going way too fast, deep in his brain, but there was no choice if he wanted to see. And he wasn’t seeing too great, some new night thing with the one eye, another pisser. Plus in between giving him directions, Norah kept making calls on her cell phone and getting no answer. Why did that piss him off even more? He got a funny sensation in his right elbow, like it wanted action, maybe do like the left one could do.
“Who’re you calling?” he said.
“Joe Don,” she said. “It’s not like him not to answer.”
“Maybe him and Big Ernie are talking business.”
“Big Ernie?”
What the hell? “With the droopy mustache.”
“Big Ed, you mean.”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ Big Ed.” Uh-oh. She was looking at him kind of funny. He made his voice nice and gentle, like he was some favorite uncle. “The music business is tough, Norah, got to warn you.”
“But even so,” Norah said, “he always answers my calls, every single time.”
Maybe he doesn’t love you anymore.
A clever little joke, since Pirate was pretty sure of its truth, but best kept to himself. “He said he’d call. He wants the Rick, after all. Don’t he just love that old guitar?”
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“It means a lot to him.”
“He’ll be playing it soon,” Pirate said. “Like with the angels up in heaven.”
“Huh?” said Norah.
“Just saying he plays like an angel,” Pirate said. “One of those expressions—just means he plays real good.”
“Yeah, I know. You, uh, play nicely, too.”
“Shucks,” said Pirate.
Lightning cracked across the sky, a big thick crevice, like a glimpse of a place where everything was white-hot. Pirate saw a lake in the distance, all black, and two big houses, lights in the windows. They rolled up to a closed gate.
“This is it,” Norah said.
“They got a gate?”
“Maybe there’s someone in the gatehouse,” Norah said. “Try honking.”
Honking didn’t seem like a good idea. Pirate just sat there, thinking, the wipers going way too fast. Norah interrupted, not his chain of thought, because there were no links yet, but still: it put him on edge.
“What are we doing here, again?” she said.
Pirate turned to her. “A little stoned?”
“Not much.”
“But some,” Pirate said. “Maybe I better do the thinking for both of us. I got you your dad’s address book, remember?”